


Silent Treatment

by owlaholic68



Category: Monster of the Week (Tabletop RPG), Original Work
Genre: Blood and Violence, Bruises, Demons, Dom/sub Undertones, Fade to Black, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Third Person Limited, Roughness, Under-negotiated Kink, minor foot injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-24 23:27:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22006186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlaholic68/pseuds/owlaholic68
Summary: Jacques comes back furious.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 4





	Silent Treatment

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place right before today's Hunt, the day that Jacques comes home (day before James texts yall about it).

The front door slams.

Upstairs, James jumps and nearly throws the book he’s reading. It takes him a moment to shake off a literary daze to make sense of the footsteps downstairs: Jacques is home. It’s just past three o’clock in the morning.

A crash of glass is more confusing. James stands and hurries to the top of the stairs as more shattering breaks the cold silence of the house. His worried run down the staircase turns into caution when he reaches the bottom: broken glass is strewn across the hallway leading into the kitchen.

James has a limited angle of sight into that room, but he sees a plate get thrown against the wall. Ceramic shards clatter onto the tile floor. Another plate follows suit before James finds his voice.

“J-Jacques,” he calls out. Clears his throat then again, louder: “Jacques, stop it!”

Jacques stomps into the doorway. He looks like, well, Hell. Dark circles under his eyes, which are burning with fury. His hands are clenched into fists and he looks ready for a fight. He’s shaking, with anger or something else.

“I – um,” James takes a step back to a higher stair. “Dear, y-you didn’t tell me you were coming h-home. Are you okay? Wh-what are you doing?”

He looks over his shoulder at the wrecked kitchen, then back at James. Turns back to the kitchen without a word.

“No, wait!” James runs forward and grabs Jacques’ arm. Sharp pain stabs into his left foot.

Oh right, the glass all over the floor.

Jacques turns at his yelp of pain. His eyes narrow in concern. He turns back to the kitchen, then back to James again, and seems to decide his priority. He puts one arm under James’ knees and the other behind his shoulders and easily picks him up.

“Bedroom, p-please,” James says, clutching Jacques’ neck. “Put me in the big bathroom.”

Down the hall and into the master bathroom, where Jacques sets him on the counter. He kneels in front of James and removes his blood-soaked sock.

He winces. The first sign of emotion besides anger. He guiltily glances up.

“Not completely your fault,” James says while Jacques presses a towel to his foot. “I should have remembered to be careful.” He grips the edge of the counter when Jacques starts pulling out the glass, magically healing him as he goes. “But what in the world were you doing? You storm into the house without so much as a hello and just start breaking everything. H-Have you lost your mind?” Jacques remains silent. “Why aren’t you talking to me? Is something wrong? Did something happen at work?”

Jacques freezes. He’s looking down so James can’t see his expression, but his hand around James’ ankle tightens.

“Something did happen,” James infers. “D-Do you want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head no.

“Are you mad at _me_ about it?”

Another shake of the head. Jacques finally looks up and gives a brief smile. He pulls out the last pieces of glass and finishes healing James’ foot.

“Are you going to keep breaking stuff or are you going to find a healthy outlet?” He gets a shrug. James sighs. “Will you at least stop breaking things in the house?” He gets an affirmative nod. “And clean up downstairs?” Another nod. “Good, well, that’s a start.”

Jacques, still kneeling, abruptly stands. He puts a hand behind James’ neck, then yanks him down and harshly kisses him.

Alright, he’s in _this_ kind of a mood too.

“Yes, I know, we haven’t seen each other in over a week,” James says when he manages to break away to breathe. Jacques pins him against the mirror with strong hands on his hips and aggressive teeth at his neck. “Dear, perhaps we should take this elsewhere-” Jacques doesn’t let him finish, kissing him again and digging fingers into his skin hard enough to bruise.

James gets a hand between them to gently push him back. “Listen, I missed you too, but mmph-”

He pushes him away again. “Jacques, really-”

One of Jacques’ hands catches his wrist and presses it to the countertop, while the other goes to his hair and tugs. He bites down hard James’ lip, then pulls back with a slightly feral stare.

With his free hand, James dazedly wipes away blood from the corner of his mouth. He’s gasping for breath and the room is spinning, Jacques’ fingers hooked in his hair his only anchor points. He twists the hand Jacques is holding. At his squirming, Jacques’ tight grip sharply constricts.

“G-Gentle, dear,” he whimpers. Jacques gives an apologetic smile and loosens his hold, moving his hand up James’ arm. His wrist has crescent-shaped indents from Jacques’ nails, several bruises already forming.

“Gentle, gentle,” James repeats. “Please remember to not be so rough.” Jacques has never purposefully hurt him, but sometimes he forgets his own supernatural strength.

Again, no verbal response, but Jacques kisses him more softly. He tastes of blood and smoke, a faint aftertaste of sulfur. His hands roam with clear intention, still far more forceful than normal. He shows no desire to let James off this counter.

“Bed,” James manages when Jacques backs off for a second. “This is uncomfortable. Bring me to the bed.” Jacques doesn’t make any motion to move. “No, Jacques, I meant now. Either let me up so I can walk, or carry me yourself.”

Jacques chooses the latter option, picking him up and throwing him onto the bed. He straddles James, pressing him down and pinning his hands above his head.

With this intensity level, James is very confident that whatever mood Jacques is in will pass quickly. One or two rounds, then he’ll be satisfied and back to normal.

However, this is not the case.

* * *

James looks at the bedside clock and wishes he hadn’t.

He leans back into a cradle of pillows and rubs his forehead. “I can’t believe it.”

“Mm?” Jacques, curled against his side, hums in confusion. Still no words. He’s lazily tracing his finger over James’ chest in random patterns. This is one short pause among many in the last, oh, _twelve fucking hours_ they’d been at this.

“I need a break.” James sits up and suddenly everything is less warm and fluffy and safe than before. The emotional drop is a kick to the chest. He bursts into tears. “I – I can’t take this, I need a b-break, just a f-few minutes.”

Jacques, alarmed at his outburst, cradles his cheek and wipes away tears, but it’s not as comforting as it usually is. With his other hand he takes one of James’ and kisses it.

“I – I’m sorry, it’s not you, it – it’s just-” James stammers, “this is all too much. You’re o-overwhelming me and I need space.” He yanks his hand out of Jacques’ ardent grip. Jacques grabs for his arm instead. He looks like a kicked puppy.

“I mean it, Jacques,” James snaps. “Leave me alone. Leave.” He points at the door. He hates how his hand shakes like his voice. “I don’t want to see you for two h-hours at least. Don’t come back until five o’clock. Just get out of the h-house, get some air. Go somewhere. Anywhere but here. I just n-need to be alone right now. I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry, I’m sorry-”

Jacques lets go of him with a wince. He tentatively leans in, giving James a chance to pull away if he wanted to, and gives him a soft kiss on the cheek. He gets up and quickly dresses before heading out the door, giving James a longing backwards glance.

Alone. Finally alone. James, determined not to sit in bed crying the whole time, instead has a nice cry in the shower. The warm water eases his muscles and his despondency. At least until he steps out of the shower and gets a good look at himself in the mirror.

He has to do a double take to make sense of what he’s seeing. He looks like that much of a mess: pale and shaky, dark marks covering his neck and collarbone, finger-shaped bruises on his hips and thighs and arms and all over, really. He’s all for Jacques being a little rough with him when the mood strikes, but only in moderation. Never has he been like this.

Averting his eyes, he dries off and puts on his softest pajamas and a warm quilted housecoat.

All the glass is cleaned up. Jacques is nowhere to be found and his shoes are missing from the mud room. A few plates are conspicuously gone from the drying rack. Not nice ones, thankfully, just plain ceramic.

James makes tea and starts peeling an orange. He doesn’t normally eat food, but right now it’s a welcome distraction.

It feels too bright. Too much sun is coming through the kitchen windows. It’s early afternoon, but it feels like the middle of the night. Too quiet, too long spent in a haze before this.

He stares at his tea until it grows cold.

* * *

Trying not to watch the clock, the hour turns over to five o’clock and James doesn’t notice until the door downstairs opens and closes. Not slammed, but loud enough to hear even upstairs in the library room.

He sets aside his book and (reheated) cup. Stands and paces around the room several times before gathering the courage to open the door to the hallway.

Jacques is cresting the top of the stairs. He looks haggard and there’s blood on one side of his face.

He looks up at James’ worried gasp. Same smoldering rage in his eyes as before. More blood is dripping from his knuckles onto the floor.

“A-Are you alright?” James resists the urge to hide behind the door. This is _Jacques,_ just because he’s mad doesn’t mean he’s going to hurt him. He’s _not_ going to hurt James, that’s for sure. “Y-You’re injured,” he unnecessarily points out, indicating Jacques’ head.

Not so unnecessary, because Jacques looks confused upon touching that side of his face. He frowns and frustratedly wipes away the blood before pressing a palm to his temple. Some of the blood disappears and whatever wound was there heals.

“Go t-take a shower.” James orders. Tries to put some sternness into his weak voice. “Throw away your clothing, it won’t be worth it to t-try to save.”

Jacques nods and turns, firmly closing the bathroom door behind him. James goes back into the library and tries to distract himself, but he’s still rereading the same sentence when Jacques comes into the room. Clean and no longer looking like he walked off a horror movie set.

He climbs into James’ lap and languidly kisses him, a far cry from his earlier energy. Warm fingers thread into the back of his hair, playing with the strands at the base of his neck.

“I like you like this,” James whispers when Jacques pulls back and nestles his face in James’ neck. “Nice and calm. Gentle.” He rubs Jacques’ back. “I don’t like you angry, dear. Are you still mad?”

Jacques nods. With one hand, he pushes back the sleeve of James’ pajamas and softly runs his fingers across the marks on his arm. Some of them disappear, but the ones around his wrist stay.

“Do I make you feel less angry?” Another nod. “Were you just trying to calm down before? Work through that energy?” Jacques nods again. “Well, it was too intense for me. Too much. A-And you were too rough. You kind of hurt me a little, I guess.” He wipes away tears he hadn’t noticed forming in the corners of his eyes. “You h-hurt me.”

“I’m sorry.” Jacques is almost too quiet to hear, but James feels the vibration of his voice. “You know that I didn’t mean to.” He presses his hand to James’ chest and warmth eases the tension in his body. His breathing evens out and he walks off the constant brink of tears.

James stays quiet, waiting to see if there’s more, but Jacques has said his piece. “I don’t know if I forgive you, but I will think about it. I’m not mad at you, I’m just upset. I don’t like when you’re in this kind of mood. It scares me a little, when you break things and come back home like you just did.” He takes Jacques’ hand and laces their fingers together. “Whatever is bothering you, you can always talk to me about it. Get it off your chest. I – I’m always here for you like you are for me.”

Jacques squeezes his hand too hard. At James’ quiet protest, he loosens up. He shakes his head.

“No?” James really just wishes he would just _talk._ “No, what? You don’t want to talk?” A nod. “Alright, if that’s what you want.”

“Don’t want to be mad around you, sweetheart. I know it scares you.” Then, quieter and sheepish, “I didn’t know you were home earlier. This morning. The car was gone.”

“Oh. I had to take the car in for the brakes. I’m getting it back tomorrow.”

Jacques nods. He kisses James’ hand and cradles it between his own, pressing it to his own chest.

“Jacques-” James cuts himself off. _What were you doing earlier, to come back covered in blood?_ He wants to ask. _Did you kill someone?_ “Never mind.” He doesn’t really want to know. “Let’s just sit here for a little while longer. I’ll read aloud if you want.”

He nods and curls up even closer. If only he could be like this all the time…

 _What got you so worked up?_ James wants to ask. _What’s going on? You’re often angry at things or people, but only for short bursts and then you’re done. But to be still irate, even now? So heated you don’t even want to talk, for fear that you’ll have an outburst? And why can’t you tell me about it?_

He doesn’t say any of this. Instead, he opens his book.

“I love you, dear,” he quietly says.

A long pause. Jacques squeezes his hand and says nothing.


End file.
